


Booters (an All-Male Version of Hooters)

by Army C (arh581958)



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Boys In Love, Canon Divergence - S03E10, EMT!Ian, Getting Back Together, M/M, Male Slash, Mickey wears booty shorts that are worse than Ian's golden booty shorts, Mickey's ass is bouncy, Mutual Pining, Oh the drama, Past Relationships, Pining, Pining!Ian, Reunions, Rom-com, Romance, Romance Comedy, Waiter!Mickey, Waiters & Waitresses, everyone has something to say about it, it was supposed to be a one-shot but it ran away on Mickey's stubbly legs, male obectification, pining!Mickey, sexism at its finest, there boys can't get their heads out of their asses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-14
Updated: 2016-09-28
Packaged: 2018-08-15 01:09:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8036359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arh581958/pseuds/Army%20C
Summary: Mickey Milkovich is out on his own. It’s not like he had much of a choice. He’s only has GED and the clothes on his back when he left Chicago. No one, absolutely no one, would be willing to hire a dirty looking white boy like him anywhere else. The name of the restaurant is "Booters"; its owners either got a sense of humor or lots of balls to make an all-male version of the popular Hooters franchise, especially if the logo’s has a pair of cowboy boots and a cartoon cowboy’s suggestively round ass. Ahh, sexism at it's finest. There's finally a sense of equality. (Or: Mickey's an waiter for Booters, where all the boys have to wear skimpy-as-fuck denim short-shorts that show half their ass. And Ian's just, well, Ian. He likes those shorts very much.)





	1. Strangers in Passing

**Author's Note:**

> This story diverges from Season 3's ending: 3x10 or 3x11, depending on how you look at it. Basically, Mickey and Ian have been hooking up. 3x666 happens. Svetlana happens but she doesn't get pregnant. The whole wedding scene _almost_ happened but Mickey didn't go though with it. Instead, he ran away. Ian's backstory gets told along the way. So far, I tried to make it as light-hearted as I possible could. It's completely different from the drama of the Comfort Series and the pure smut of my other stories. Hey, it's my first multiple-chapter into the wonderful world of Gallavich. Please enjoy~ 
> 
>  
> 
> **Not Beta Read. Open for Volunteers. Will give free cyber chocolate chip cookies.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm doing this thing where I'm trying to name all the chapters based on songs from the most recent love-song hits. I'll leave you guys to guess which ones it is~ :D

**BOOTERS,** that’s what it says on the shitty neon sign. It’s not a good name. Aww, hell no but it’s definitely a catchy one, especially if the logo’s has a pair of cowboy boots and a cartoon cowboy’s suggestively round ass. The ‘Os’ are right over the guy’s butt. One thing is for certain; the owners of the gig either got a sense of humor or lots of balls to make an all-male version of the popular _Hooters_ franchise.

HELP WANTED, advertises the bond paper on the door.

Mickey Milkovich sighs and looks up at the sign again. It’s not like he had much of a choice. He’s only his GED and the clothes on his back when he left Chicago. No one, absolutely no one, would be willing to hire a dirty looking white boy like him anywhere else. He’s already tried the shadiest bars in New York City, and even they are too classy for him to survive. This one has all the evidences of its Texan roots. Hopefully, there’s a little southern hospitality thrown in there too.

“Aww, well, howdy there, suga, what can do for ye?” The busty blond at the bar asks him with a thick-accented drawl. She’s in pink plaid, a black wife beater, and a large red-rimmed glasses perched on her tall nose. It’s too pointed to be _all natural_ , definitely a nose job there.

Mickey shuffles his feet, all too aware of what he must look like. He hasn’t eaten or showered since the last stopover to New York. That was early this morning. He’s been all over the city since. There’s got to be pit-stains on his pit-stains, and he can’t possibly be smelling all too good either. He must look like a street rat to her. At this point, he really is just that.

“I, uh…” He brushes a hand over his still bruised lower lip and scratches the back of his neck. He points to the bond paper stuck to the front of the door. “The sign out front says ya need crew? I don’t gotsta no fancy paper work or nothin’ but I can work for food. You don’t gotsta feed me much. Just… uh… just enough not to starve, ayt?”

The woman at the counter studies him closely. For a second or two, Mickey’s scared as hell that she’ll figure him out—runaway troublemaker with a juvie record—and that she’ll kick him out or, much worse, she’ll call the cops and he’ll be shipped back to Chicago, back to Terry. He thinks that he’d rather die right here and now than face Terry again.

He won’t call the guy ‘dad’ anymore. Asshole who beat their kids up and nearly kill’em don’t deserve the title. Then again, Terry’s all Mickey’s ever known and he shudders at that thought. Not everyone got lucky at the family lottery. He got what he got, and he ain’t staying for it. What he is certainly ain’t what Terry Milkovich expects of his sons. He’d rather not be the bastard’s son then. Fuck’em.

“Turn around.” Her honey-sweet voice tears him back to the present.

“S’cuse me?” Mickey has enough survival instinct not to voice out the ‘What the fuck?’ in his head.

“Turn around, suga,” she repeats, making a down-pointed swirl with her finger. “I need’ta check if you have them good for the job, ‘round here we make sure that them boys got the buns to work in this type of business. Turn. Around.”

Mickey does. He spins on the balls of his feet with a frown. She isn’t satisfied by his lame attempt.  

“Slower. Again.”

Mickey slowly twirls with his hands flung to the sides. He doesn’t really understand why he’s being ordered around like a pet monkey but, hey, right now he’ll do about anything to get a job—short of blowing a guy. Sure, part of why he ran away is because he’s gay but he ain’t just gonna bend over for anyone who asks. He ain’t ready for that yet. The fear of Terry still looms over him like a dark shadow.

Seconds go by a tick and a tock. They’re thunderous in Mickey’s ears. His life rests on the balance. He can feel the pin-prickle of her gaze lingering on his skin. It makes him twitchy. Forever seems to pass by before she finally makes her decision.

“All right,” she finally says, and Mickey’s instantly relieved. “But first you need’ta take a bath, son. You’re not gonna get any patrons smelling like that. Call me Mama Jo.”

***

THREE YEARS LATER

Ian Gallagher, EMT Trainee, walks into a restaurant where he and his work-mates are hosting a bachelorette party for June. Traditionally, during these kinds of things, men stuck with men and women stuck with women but he’s never been one for tradition—apparently, so is the rest of these New Yorkers. After shift, Sue told everyone to hustle their asses to party. He hasn’t even been to one of these things so he wouldn’t really know really supposed to happen.

Sue pats Ian on the shoulder roughly. “Mistake number six that newbies do, kid,” she says in the same no-nonsense tone she uses to bark orders at the station, but she’s grinning. “It’s how _not_ to show your co-workers a good time when one of them’s getting hitched. So put on your party hat, cowboy!”

Ian doesn’t get the pun until two seconds later when he finally sees inside the place. It’s crawling with cowboys. To be honest, _cowboys_ might even be pushing it. All the waiters are wearing skimpy-ass denim short-shorts that would put his golden booty shorts at White Swallow to shame. Half their lower buns are playing peak-a-boo with the patrons. It’s only fractionally more clothing than when he was a dancer—that’s if he included the tiny brown fringed half-vest covering absolutely nothing. Each waiter had a cowboy hat either around their necks or on their heads.

“Come on, boy, you better save some of that drool for the food.” Sue tugs him to the couch where they’re sitting. June, Ernesto, Vince, Lila, Conrad, Audrey, Toria, and Khalil are all there. Including Sue and Ian, it’s a pretty even party between girls and guys. The occasion’s decidedly for June, though, and she’s got the prime spot for _accidental_ crotch-brushing or ass-touching. She’s already got a blush tinting her dark cheeks.

“Well, well, well, look what mama cat dragged in!” Ernesto greets them with a half-drunk grin. He’s coming out of a two-day shirt tonight, and it looks like the pint of beer’s already got him. “Ian, why don’t you sit beside June? So you can get some of that action too!”

Ian, bless his mother’s Irish decent, blushes like a school boy. “No, thanks, I’d rather sit over there.” He walks to take the seat beside Vince on the round couch but the blond man looks at him apologetically.

“Nu-uh. Sorry, man, but Sue made me promise to save her a seat. You’re kinda in the wolves there, buddy, it’s what you get for being late.” Vince slides into the booth a little more as Sue comes around.

From June’s side of the table, Toria pipes up. “Aww, don’t be shy, Ian! It’s not so bad here! We got the best view of the house.” She pats down the seat between June and her. “I never thought myself as an ass-girl but damn,” she whistles as a beefy muscled waiter passes by her. She follows the guy’s ass with her eyes. “Those bubble-butts are going to make the girls in my yoga class weep! June, are you 100% positive about marry LeShawn? He doesn’t have an ass like that, does he?”

June blushes darker. “I’ll have you know that my man’s ass is day- _yum_ , girl. You’ll never known ass until you’ve seen a black man’s ass,” She says, laughing in good nature. Looking around, she see-saws her hand in the air. “But… these boys aren’t half bad either. What do you think, Ian?”

By now, Ian’s been distracted by too many hot men and _months_ of pent-up sexual tension to follow the conversation. He heard, at max, about twenty percent of that. The word ‘ass’ keeps rolling in his mind like a broken CD.

“Yeah, sure,” He answers with a shrug. It’s been two years since he moved to New York to start a new life. He never made it to West Point. He hightailed out of basic on the first week. The first thing he did was finish his GED while working in gay clubs at night. Now, he’s on his way to making something of himself.

June pulls him down by the sleeve of his Henley. “Come on, don’t be shy, it’s just us. You can spill that beans on that ex of yours! Humor the bride-to-be, won’t you? Anyone here with an ass as fine as that?”

“Well, ehrm…” Ian’s always been open about that kind of stuff—being gay, hooking-up, and having a boyfriend. His last boyfriend, a firefighter named Caleb, had been good while it lasted but he wasn’t _it_. Deep down, Ian knows he’s still looking for something else.”

The rest of the ladies seem to take June’s enthusiasm with his sex life.

 “Yeah, let’s hear those stories!”

“Please, Ian?”

“Ex-boo booty stories!”

Lila, Audrey, and Toria all chant at the same time.

Even Sue makes a quip of her own. “Go on, Gallagher, it’s an open work environment!”

Ian sees the guys squirming in their seats. While his being gay wasn’t a big secret, it isn’t something that he flaunts in front of the guys for no reason. He’s learned that the hard way. Sometimes, even in a place as big as New York, it’s tough not to encounter some of those homophobic assholes. Luck for him, the guys are pretty cool with the idea of him getting it on with other guys—as long as it’s not them.

“Ian.” June places a hand on his arm, sickly-sweet. “Any one of them who’s got a hotter ass? I’ve got see what my LeShawn’s up against in the booty department.”

Ian laughs and folds. There are tons of guys with buns made for quarter-bouncing in here. What else would he have expected from a place that advertises ‘bootylicious service’ from their ‘bum brigade’? It’s a bucket load of puns that’s ass-oriented. It doesn’t take him long to see an ass that catches his attention. He gulps loudly.

Toria hears it. “Ohhh, looks like Ian’s snapped the bait. Which one is it?” She asks, hooking an arm over his shoulder. “Tell me it’s that tan-ass over by the bar. He’s all loads of hunky and panties are getting wet just by looking!”

“Uhh, no.” Ian shakes his head. He knows a fake-tan when he sees one, too _orange_ for his taste. He has his sights set on a milky white pale ass with a pair of shorts about an inch longer than the rest. Lengthier or not but it does _cup_ the guy’s perfectly round cheeks. He sees _dimples_ every time the guy _moves_. He hasn’t seen an ass as good as than in years. Not even Caleb’s perky dark buns could compare.

Surprisingly, it’s Conrad that follows Ian’s eyes right. “Snow White? Really, Ian, that’s what’s got your steam pumping? Isn’t he like _the total opposite_ of your ex-boyfriend? Shorter too. He doesn’t really look like your type, man.” He points to the guy for the rest of their table to follow, then shrugged. “Huh? That came completely from the left field. I wouldn’t have guessed.”

Ian’s beet-red, and the girls are gushing over ‘Snow White’.

Sue, bless her crass nature, hollers at the top of her voice. “Hey, Snowie, can we get a couple of rounds here for the bride-to-be? Top shelf! ‘Cause you only get married once!”

Snow White visibly stiffens, and for a second there Ian thinks that Sue just started a _restaurant_ brawl of all things, but the guy ultimately shakes his head and heads toward the counter. The blonde woman behind the bar gives them the momentary stink eye before collecting a bottle from the top shelf. She says something to the waiter, who waves his hand in a dismissive fashion before taking the shot glasses and the bottle.

Ian ducks his head as the guy turns around, embarrassed. There’s the sound of cowboy boots steadily moving closer, a momentary flutter, then a voice that he never through he’d hear again.

“Gallagher?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I wrote like 8k-ish words of this. Remember when I kept promising for an mpreg!A/B/O story from Gallavich week? Or the fic from 'getting out day'? Apparently, I'm not as inspired to write them as I am with this. The idea for this story came to me in the wee hours of the morning before I went to sleep. I woke up and started writing. As I said, about three more chapters are already written. I need help with the 4th one. It's not coming out right. **I also need a beta as a pair of second eyes to look through this for me. Are there any volunteers out there? If so, please contact me on the tumblr link below~ i will forever love you~** I'm hoping that I do get some positive response on this. I think apart of me was really saddened by low reception of the other story that I was about to write. (That's just me. Sorry.) It was about 40-chapters in the outline and now I'm just like blah. Oh well, I hope this doesn't meet the same fate. Sorry for the rant.
> 
> ***
> 
> If you have a prompt or an idea, you can [INSPIRE ME](http://arh581958.tumblr.com/submit) on tumblr. Or [TALK TO ME](http://arh581958.tumblr.com/ask)~
> 
> As always, **kudos/comments/bookmarks** are all appreciated by this author. I take comments as extra-kudos and I _do_ read the bookmark tags (some are really fun).


	2. Onto You So Tight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the long wait! Classes have started and ALL my professors thinks they're teaching major subjects. (How annoying!) Anyway, this chapter was beta read by the fabulous M. Give her a round of applause for taking this on despite being busy on her own schedule~ <3 <3 <3

“Mickey?” 

Mickey’s whole body falters at the sound. It’s a voice and a face he hasn’t seen in  _ years _ . Not once did he think that he would see the redhead again. But now, Ian’s  _ here _ , staring at him with those big round green eyes. It’s him. It’s definitely him. His features are different but familiar. There’s a sharpness to his jaw, obviously having outgrown the baby fat, but the boyishness is still there. He’s older, taller, and broader than the boy from Mickey’s memories—and Mickey remembered a lot. 

Not a day’s gone by when he didn’t think of this  _ specific _ Gallagher.  

“You work here now?” 

Sweat pools under his fingerless gloves. He wears them to hide the knuckle tattoos. When he was thirteen and stupid, he didn’t really think about how  _ hireable _ it would make him. All he needed was to prove to Terry that he was the same breed of scum. The tattoos are a part of him now. They’re his reminder—his testament—of where he came from but it doesn’t mean that he likes to flaunt it. 

Mickey pushes down the urge to hide. 

“Yeh, well, what’s it to ya, Firecrotch?” He lets the nickname slide off his tongue just like before—a force of habit. He didn’t mean to. Fuck! He’s got the tray balanced on one hand. His other hand brushes his thumb against his lower lip and ends up biting it. “Decent work. Decent pay. Ey, I got dental now.” 

Gallagher’s eyes trail up his body. His skin prickles. He’s more aware of how very little is hidden by the uniform. Those eyes are undressing him where he stands—from his neck down his chest then lower. A shiver runs through him. When did it get so cold? His nipples harden at the attention, and they’re not the only ones. He’s marginally thankful that it’s company policy to wear jockstraps under the denim. 

Unwanted erections have not been a problem until now. Not with Ian eyeing him like a man starved. The jock strap adds support for his junk, not that he was overly fond of them when he started this gig. Now, though, it’s uniform along with the booty shorts that don’t cover shit. 

Mickey tries not to bend too far when he places the tray on the table. 

“Alright,” he says with confidence he doesn’t have, “Ya’ll order some shots?” 

If he’s lucky, Gallagher’s friend would let the brief encounter slide—but he isn’t. 

A sandy haired guy from the opposite side cat-calls. “Damn, Ian, if I’d know that you tap  _ that _ , I wouldn’t be opposed to turn gay myself. That is one fine ass, my friend. You’re lucky, dude! Hot  _ Damn _ !” He says the word ‘damn’ like a really bad rip-off of the  _ Bad Boys _ movie. 

“No. Way.” The black girl beside Ian says, non-discreetly checking out Mickey’s ass. “There is no way in  _ hell _ that his booty’s better than Caleb’s. No fucking way.” 

“But, June,” the girl with reddish-brown hair beside Ian speaks up. She too does a once-over Mickey’s behind with a lick of her lips. “You’ve got to admit that  _ that _ is one fine ass. I wouldn’t blame Ian if he tapped it more than once. Right, Audrey?” She asks the blond girl beside her. 

Audrey tries in vain to not look interested when she answers. “It’s, uhm, a nice ass.”

“Yeah, papi, that booty is  _ delicioso _ ! Hmm!” The guy beside her adds, complete with kissing his fingers then a wave. “Yum yum!”

Mickey grits his teeth and keeps his face passive. It’s nothing that he hasn’t heard before. A camera shutter goes off. He turns just in time to see the dark-haired Asian girl’s camera flash go off. His stomach drops. Sure, he’s gotten his fair share of gropes and girls objectifying him but it’s not like he knew any of them. Gallagher being here changes everything. It feels like he’s the headline attraction for a freak show—or worse, a  _ strip  _ show. 

She’s craning out of her seat beside the black girl. On the other side of the table, he sees the guy beside the matriarch sipping his beers and the last guy—the one who hasn’t said a word at all—looks  _ disgusted _ . A homophobic fucker. Guy like that don’t get to judge him. He’s done with condescending assholes thinking that they’re better than people like him just because he’s straight. He balls his fists against his sides. It’s honest fucking work for once in his life.

Fingers touch the back of his knee. “Mick, it’s not worth it,” Ian whispers. “Khalil’s a douchebag but he’s harmless.” Warm fingers caress his freezing skin. It makes him shiver. His eyes jolt from Ian and back to the guy. It’s his mistake because he caught the older woman’s eyes in the process. 

“I reckon that you two know each other?” The woman, the boss from the looks of it, grabs her beer on the table and takes a loud slurp. “So tell me, boy, how do you and Gallagher know each other?” 

For the first time throughout this whole embarrassing encounter, Mickey’s cheeks heat up. Cold sweat breaks out of his skin. He hates the heat radiating off Gallagher’s body, and that he’s close enough to actually feel it. 

“Well, err…” 

“High school,” Ian swoops in with a lopsided grin. Mickey jerks when he feels a few fingers brush the back of his knees again. He turns to glare at Ian, but all he sees is the  _ trust me _ face. “Ain’t that right, Mick?” Ian uses the nickname just like they’re old buddies with a hint of affection that Mickey doesn’t want to hear. “We went to the same high school back in Chicago. He was two years ahead of me. We hung around sometimes.” 

There’s an echo of ‘Ooohs’ from the crowd. 

“Are you sure you were  _ just friends _ ?” The black girl asks Ian. She isn’t being subtle. Her voice’s dripping with implication.

“Buddies, right, man?” Ian grins stupidly at his friends. His hand’s long enough to pat Mickey on the shoulder. “I didn’t know you even left the Southside, man, I’m, uh…” And that’s where the old shy Ian comes back to the surface, “It’s nice to see you again, Mick.”

“Err, ditto, Gallagher,” Mickey mumbles, hot in all the places that Ian’s touched. He not-so subtly moves away. He can’t be distracted just because there’s a blast from the past in the form and likeness of one Ian Clayton  _ Fucking  _ Gallagher. This is his life now. It’s not osh-kosh-and-posh but it’s his life away from the Southside. He doesn’t want to fuck it all up. 

The memory of Gallagher’s fingers still burns on the back of his knees and on his shoulder. He moves mechanically, pouring a round of ten shots for the group with practiced ease. His denim shorts ride up his ass-cheeks when he bends down. Ian’s eyes will burn a hole right through them. He should get it done and over with so he can go back to the other side of the bar. This isn’t even his section, and the only reason he’s here is because the older woman asked for him specifically. 

“So, err, bottoms up,” Mickey says somewhat awkwardly, fighting down the urge to tug at his shorts. He doesn’t want to give Gallagher—or any of them—the satisfaction that he’s flustered. He would much rather go up on the bar and join the boys in the customary midnight round-up. He normally takes his fifteen-minute break just before midnight to avoid dancing like an idiot. 

Everyone down their drink in a single gulp. A few of them squeeze their eyes shut because of the burn. 

Mickey collects the glasses as fast as he can. “Ayt, ayt, think Kevin here’ll can get ya anything ya’ll need.” He pulls Kevin, the tall tanned brunette, by the biceps and makes the necessary introductions. To Kevin, he hisses, “Imma go back to my section. You owe me for coverin’ this table when your lazy ass wasn’t around to take’em.” It comes out rougher than he intended. “I’m gonna take my break.” He resolutely  _ does not _ flee. 

There’s a skid then a clatter. 

Mickey mentally counts down from five in his head.

5… 4… 3… 2…

“Mickey, wait!” Gallagher’s voice pierces through the bar noise. Loud thundering footsteps run after him. 

Mickey doesn’t stop. He crosses the floor in a hurry. Even then, he keeps going. He goes to the employee only restricted zone where Ian can’t follow him. The locker room’s empty given the time. It’s peak-hour. Normally, they’ll have all hands on deck for the onslaught of customers but Mickey keeps his clammy skin as he struggles to get his locker open. It takes him three tries to get all the knobs right. 

He grabs his jacket and a pack of smokes, foregoing his pants. It takes more effort to get them on with his cowboy boots in the way. Fifteen minutes—that’s all he needs to clear his head. It should be easy. Shrugging on his beat-up old jacket, he leaves the building through the emergency exit. The pungent stench of back-alley grime filters through his nose immediately. He welcomes it—anything just to get the spicy male scent of Ian Gallagher out of his head. 

It’s only moments later when he hears his name called again. 

“Mickey?” 

No, no, no. 

This can’t be right. 

This can’t be fair. 

Mickey shuts his eyes tight. Shaky fingers try to light up the cig in his mouth. His lighter fails him. He gives in at two failed attempts. It’s either that New York got windier or he really just has shit luck. Fuck, he’s shivering. The thick jacket is long enough to cover his ass but his legs are mostly frozen by now. Normally, he’ll have sweatpants Fuck normal. He normally had a  _ brain _ too. 

Now, though, it short-circuits with the sight of Ian  _ fucking  _ Gallagher is right in front of him. 

“Here, let me,” Ian says. His voice is much, much lower than before with a hint of maple-sweetness in its timbre. Those freakishly large hands and long pale fingers cover Mickey’s trembling hand, the one with the—lighter—and thumbs it a few times. 

It works. 

Warmth bubbles between them from the small open fire. 

Ian brings the lighter to under the cig. 

Mickey stare because that’s all he can do. He can’t stop looking at how the small orange flame illuminates Gallagher’s face. His heart stutters. That face is something he’s missed so damn much. It hurts most of the time. He never thought that he’d see him again, but now they were here—in a back-alley of a bar with slutty cowboys—lighting up his cigarette together just like the many times they’d done so in the past. They were nothing more than a bunch of horny teenagers back then. It’s different now. 

“Uh, thanks,” he mumbles, puffing a few times until the end of his stick burns. He blows a puff of smoke to the side as not to hit Gallagher in the face. It’s hard when their faces are mere inches apart.  

Ian doesn’t look like he’s going to step back. 

Mickey doesn’t have the heart to push him away—not when this is all that he’s been dreaming of since the day he left Chicago. Foolishly, he once told himself that he was running away from Terry but that isn’t the whole truth. He’s been looking for Ian but, with the redhead M.I.A, he just didn’t know where to begin looking. He’s hoped, quite rightly, that Ian would make it back to him someday. 

That day is now, and he isn’t ready for it. 

He’s got no idea what to say or do when the only boy’s he’s ever fallen in-love with, the first boy he’s ever been with, the only  _ person _ he’s opened up to… is standing not a hair’s breadth away from him. Their faces so close together that it’s hard not to  _ breathe-in _ Ian. The natural scent of his body—be it sweat or anything else—overpowers the stench of their surroundings. His forgotten cigarette is between his fingers, burning like an hourglass.

It’s Ian, finally Ian, right here and now. 

Mickey takes his time to let that fact sink in. 

Ian’s grown-up so much. His hair’s longer than the buzz-cut he had when Mickey last saw him. He’s taller too. Now that they’re toe to toe, Mickey fully realizes the inches that Ian had over him. It’s more like a foot than a few inches. Ian’s tight dark olive green shirt clings to his upper body like second skin and his slim leather jacket does nothing to hide the new broadness of his shoulders. 

Mickey wants to touch. He wants to run his tongue up and down the exposed skin on Ian’s neck. He wants to mark it just above the round-neck collar so everyone will know that Ian’s spoken for—that Ian’s  _ his _ . He stomps on that train of thought before it leaves the platform. Ian isn’t his. It’s been a long time since they’ve been together. Ian could have moved on from him. Ian  _ should  _ have. 

The hot paper of his cigarette scotches him. He drops it with a hiss. 

Just like that, the moments broken. 

“Gallagher, man, whatcha gotta g’ere for?” 

With some effort, Mickey gently pushes Ian away. His fingers linger, curled into the zipper of Ian’s open jacket, for half a second too long. That face—older features but same Ian—brings him back to all those years ago on that fateful day when they ended. Maybe if he’d been  man enough to tell Terry straight off instead of cowering in the arms of some hooker, he would still have this to call his own. 

“Mickey,” is all Ian says before Mickey’s off again. This time, he’s the one that’s running away. 

“Breaks over, Gallagher, I gotta get back.” 

He flips the bird over his shoulder as he muscles his way back into the building. The door locks with a loud click. An inch of heavy metal. He hopes that that’s thick enough to keep him from making another mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More comments please. I love comments! I'm an angst-writer by heart but I'm trying my best to keep this as fluffy as I possibly can, so please tell me how you'd like to see these two idiots fall back in-love! Give me date ideas, awkward UST moments, and anything cute-and-fluffy~ I will try my best to fit it into the story. Because believe me, if left to my own devices, I would have them just pining and being so overly dramatic--which is a big no-no for this story. I want TOOTH-ROOTING FLUFFY ROM-COM. :)) 
> 
> Love, Army C
> 
> ***
> 
> If you have a prompt or an idea, you can [INSPIRE ME](http://arh581958.tumblr.com/submit) on tumblr. Or [TALK TO ME](http://arh581958.tumblr.com/ask)~
> 
> As always, **kudos/comments/bookmarks** are all appreciated by this author. I take comments as extra-kudos and I _do_ read the bookmark tags (some are really fun).

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I wrote like 8k-ish words of this. Remember when I kept promising for an mpreg!A/B/O story from Gallavich week? Or the fic from 'getting out day'? Apparently, I'm not as inspired to write them as I am with this. The idea for this story came to me in the wee hours of the morning before I went to sleep. I woke up and started writing. As I said, about three more chapters are already written. I need help with the 4th one. It's not coming out right. **I also need a beta as a pair of second eyes to look through this for me. Are there any volunteers out there? If so, please contact me on the tumblr link below~ i will forever love you~** I'm hoping that I do get some positive response on this. I think apart of me was really saddened by low reception of the other story that I was about to write. (That's just me. Sorry.) It was about 40-chapters in the outline and now I'm just like blah. Oh well, I hope this doesn't meet the same fate. Sorry for the rant.
> 
> ***
> 
> If you have a prompt or an idea, you can [INSPIRE ME](http://arh581958.tumblr.com/submit) on tumblr. Or [TALK TO ME](http://arh581958.tumblr.com/ask)~
> 
> As always, **kudos/comments/bookmarks** are all appreciated by this author. I take comments as extra-kudos and I _do_ read the bookmark tags (some are really fun).


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